A Mile in His Combat Boots
by CieloCrimisi
Summary: A tribute to all things Butler. Will be a collection of oneshots. Chapter 4 up.
1. Spare the Rod

Domovoi knew he was in some deep trouble when he opened his eyes and, over the shoulder of the pretty Swiss girl with whom he was currently entwined, saw a stone-faced Madame Ko watching them coldly, one hand on her hip, the other gripping the thin rattan rod that was infamous among her acolytes as her disciplinary trademark.

He froze, like a baby fawn praying for its camouflage to save it from a sniffing predator, and felt his stomach drop like lead because of course the predator had already caught him.

The girl cocked her head and smiled up at Domovoi quizzically, having not yet noticed the third party witness to their midnight rendezvous. "Fehlt ihnen etwas?" she inquired, nuzzling his shoulder.

"Marielle…" Domovoi, not once breaking eye contact with his sensei, nudged her away from him, took her by the shoulders and turned her around so she too could see the small but forbidding Japanese woman glaring at them.

Marielle jumped, edging behind a shirtless Domovoi and crossing her arms over her partially unbuttoned blouse.

Madame Ko was not amused. "Exactly what do you think you are doing?" she asked. Domovoi knew her calm voice was deceptive. He opened his mouth to say something, but couldn't think of any remotely plausible excuse so he closed it again and hung his head.

Marielle, who didn't understand much English, just looked nervously back and forth between the two of them until Madame Ko rounded on her in a fury. "You! Girl," she said harshly. "Go back to your home! And you stay far from this school!"

She beat the terrified girl around the legs with the cane until she got the gist of the message and, not sparing a last look at Domovoi, took off down the mountain in her stockings, nimble as a goat, forgetting her shoes behind her.

As soon as she'd disappeared into the darkness Madame Ko whipped back around to face her student. Her eyes narrowed, and Domovoi immediately overcame his petrification and sank into a low bow, hoping for mercy.

"I apologize, Sensei. My actions tonight were foolish and irresponsible," he said as humbly as he could, eyes on the ground.

Quick as a striking cobra, she brought the rod down across his shoulders.

Domovoi felt the gentle rush of wind ruffle his hair a split second before he felt the fierce sting on his back, or heard the sharp smack of rattan wood meeting flesh.

"For as long as you are enrolled in my academy, Domovoi Butler, your time belongs to me," she hissed. "And I will not tolerate you wasting _my_ time roving the woods to have relations with whichever common village girl captures your fancy!" She struck him several more times to emphasize her point, the wood whistling as it snaked through the air. He bit his tongue until he tasted metal, but didn't flinch or make a sound as Madame Ko continued to berate him, her voice low but her words carrying more venom than if she'd shouted.

"You would _think_, would you not, that after _six years_ of training I might have succeeded in instilling a measure of self-control in you. And what do you do? You sneak off in the middle of the night like some empty-headed dunce with _no respect_ for anything you're told…"

And on it went. To someone else, the scene might have been funny: a six-and-a-half foot, well-built young man cowering before the wrath of a middle-aged five foot four Asian woman. But Domovoi didn't dare straighten from his bow until Madame Ko had finished scolding him and gave him express permission to do so. When he did stand straight he could feel something warm beginning to trickle down his back.

The Japanese woman stood silent for a few moments, but Domovoi knew better than to assume that this mild thrashing would be the end of his punishment. The Madame did not take the direct disobedience of her acolytes lightly. She could only be contemplating what more he was deserving of.

"Butler," she said finally.

"Yes, Madame?" He held his breath as he waited to hear the verdict.

"You are to run laps around the camp," she told him.

Domovoi let out a quiet sigh of relief. She wanted him to run laps? That was it? No more physical torture? No hideous load of demeaning chores? Ha! He could run laps for hours.

"Yes, Madame." He bowed to her and started to head off toward the camp's perimeter, then paused. "Forgive me, Madame, but I did not hear how many laps you wanted?"

"That is because I did not tell you. It is no matter. You are to keep going until I say otherwise."

A little confused but not about to question his orders, Domovoi bowed once more and jogged over to the camp's perimeter, where he broke out into a run.

Domovoi liked Switzerland. The earth was springy under his feet. The night air was cold, but refreshingly so, and it soothed the vicious stinging of his back.

He made sure to pace himself, and soon fell into a steady loping rhythm. When Domovoi ran like this, with a set course and no distractions but the wind in the trees and the sound of his own footfalls, he could put his body on autopilot and let his mind wander wherever it wanted to go.

He soon rounded the academy's training fields, where the students not only practiced daily but also held frequent sparring matches. He passed the sleeping tents of Madame Ko and the retired blue diamond graduates that chose to return to assist her in running the camp, and then the large tents that housed groups of students, sorted according to age, and finally he passed the spot where he'd started, where Madame Ko stood watching.

And so he ran around… and around… and around... until he passed the starting point to find that Madame Ko had returned to her tent.

A faint tinge of orange came creeping across the horizon. The camp would be stirring soon, and still Domovoi was pushing himself around the course. Each time he planted a foot on the ground he was certain that, this time, he would not be able to lift it up again.

The blood from his back had run in tiny rivulets down to the waistband of his zuban and dried there. He could feel it crack when he twisted his torso.

He was covered in a sheen of sweat, which cooled when it came into contact with the freezing predawn air and made him shiver. He wished he'd thought to put his uwagi back on, but it was still lying where he'd left it hours ago in the forest with Marielle's shoes.

Both his mind and his leg muscles screamed for rest. His knees burned from chafing against the sweat-soaked fabric. His eyelids felt made of granite, heavy and scratching when he blinked. Domovoi wondered what would happen if everyone came pouring out of their tents to find him passed out, lying facedown in the grass. Then he debated whether snagging fifteen minutes of sleep would be worth the embarrassment.

Another lap and a half later, Madame Ko emerged from her tent, looked around her, and watched his slow progress around the track he'd worn into the earth.

She strolled over before he could round the nearest corner and stepped into his path. "You may stop."

Domovoi dropped to his knees, head bowed, drawing deep breaths through his nose. He fought a battle to keep his eyes open.

Madame Ko gazed at him impassively for a minute, then caught him by the chin and forced him to look up at her. "Do you think you have learned something about sneaking out after curfew?" she asked, eyebrow raised.

"Yes, Madame," Domovoi croaked.

"Good. Go and stretch before your muscles seize up. You will be just in time to join your classmates on the morning run to the river." A small noise escaped the boy's throat, something between a groan and a sob.

Madame Ko heard it and her expression hardened. "You chose to go wandering when you could have slept. That was your decision, and you will complete the day's training as usual. We shall see if you feel up to such nonsense tonight, hm?" She left him there on the ground.

Domovoi kneeled in the dirt for quite some time before he could summon the strength to drag himself to his feet. Acolytes were beginning to trickle from their tents and assemble outside. Some of his friends looked at him curiously, wondering why he hadn't returned last night.

He trudged down the path that led to the village, fetched his uwagi from where it lay tangled in the underbrush and put it on to avoid questions from his classmates.

The sun had risen over the valley by the time Domovoi returned to camp, not high enough to be a source of warmth, but low enough to be blinding. Nearly all ninety-seven students were outside looking fully rested, stretching in preparation for their jog up the snow-capped mountaintop.

Domovoi reluctantly joined the fringe of the group and fell into his everyday routine, first loosening his stiff calf muscles. Then hamstrings. Deltoids. Rotating his ankles and his shoulders. Five minutes later he was off to the river with the rest of the pack, keeping to the middle of the runners.

He let the rushing wind clear his mind. Focused on the pounding of earth under his feet. Ignored the burning in his tendons. One foot in front of the other.

Just another long day at Madame Ko's Academy of Personal Protection.

**A/N: Woot. I love Butler-at-the-Academy stories. There is a sad lack of them. Why is this? He's so cool... Anyways. I don't really have a specific plan for this collection. I think I'm just going to post my random Butler fics under this title as I'm inspired to write them. I'm already planning doing something like this for Artemis, too. So let me know how you liked the first one.**

**Also, Marielle's sentence means something along the lines of "what's the matter?" in German Swiss. At least I think it does. If you speak German Swiss, please inform me if I've butchered it terribly.**

***Note* Changed the "Sweden" slip. ~Embarrassing~ I always mix up whether Butler trained in Sweden or Switzerland. (It's Switzerland!) Thanks to LE for catching it. x_x**


	2. Practice Makes Perfect

**A/N: For the record, Domovoi is 14 here. Carry on.**

* * *

"Again."

Panting, Domovoi obediently returned to the starting position. His feet snapped together and he pulled his shoulders back, arms at his sides. He could have sworn he had it that last time.

He bowed, then placed one hand on top of the other, making an arrow out of his arms. Spread his feet until his shoulders, knees and ankles were in alignment. Rotated his wrists so that his thumbs and fingertips formed a triangle in a traditional affirmation that he carried no weapons, though of course Madame Ko already knew this. And then he began his kata for the umpteenth time this afternoon.

Palm thrust to the face, side kick, head snap left, crescent step and left turn. Diagonal horse stance, grab opponent, throw over shoulder. Head snap right, crescent step, two vertical punches to the solar plexus, spinning jump over the fallen opponent and execute an uppercut punch upon landing.

Domovoi exhaled on each strike, pouring all of his considerable strength into defeating the onslaught of imaginary attackers. The crisp fabric of his _gi_ snapped which every blindingly fast movement, but speed wasn't the focus of this particular kata. This one was all about the power behind the attacks. Ensuring that whatever he hit was not going to get back up.

Knife hand block, front kick, roundhouse kick, two rapid _seiken tsuki -_ one to the solar plexus, one to the groin. Head snap right and crescent step.

Each step was calculated to take him around a tight circle, in the center of which stood an imaginary principle. Domovoi knew this kata inside and out, had every maneuver committed to memory. Yet still Madame Ko insisted he repeat it, declining to tell him what exactly he was doing wrong. He'd been performing this accursed kata nonstop for no less than three hours, the sweltering Israeli sun beating down on him the whole while. Domovoi imagined the oppressive heat as yet another attacker he had to fend off. A damp, heavy blanket trying to weigh him down. He refused to let it. Sweat trickled down his back, but the canvas uniform jacket he wore prevented it from either cooling him or evaporating.

Tiger strike to the throat. Knife hand block, round house kick, uppercut to the jaw.

_This time,_ Domovoi told himself. _This time I got it right._ He was sure of it. He finished strong with a perfectly executed back kick and bowed to Madame Ko. The boy barely had time to draw a breath.

"Again."

He blinked the sweat out of his eyes and tried to wordlessly beseech his sensei to let him rest. She just stared at him cooly. How in the world did she manage to keep from sweating in this weather? He sighed through his nose. Feet together. Another bow. Triangle.

Palm thrust, side kick, crescent step...

Domovoi was concerned. It was high noon. His stamina was running low, and knew he couldn't keep performing at his best for much longer. Madame Ko would be displeased.

_Knife hand, roundhouse..._

His tongue felt thick in his mouth. His bare feet had long since grown used to the scorching sand beneath them.

_Uppercut, spin, back kick. Bow._

"Again."

_Palm thrust, side kick..._

Each breath was beginning to feel like a knife blade down Domovoi's dry throat. He knew that his strikes were becoming mechanical, lacking that necessary snap of completion, but he felt overheated, almost feverish. He wondered how many more times he could do this until he died of heatstroke.

_Back kick. Bow._

The silence that followed was like psychological torture. The sound of laughing students wafted across the dunes from back at camp. Domovoi braced himself for the disappointment of hearing that aggravatingly calm, "Again."

Instead came, "You are done for today, Butler."

Domovoi could have cried for joy, but he didn't think there was enough moisture left in him for tears. Instead he heaved a sigh of relief. "Thank you, Madame."

Madame Ko pulled a small water bottle from her pocket and handed it to him. It was warm, but he gulped it down in seconds.

Once he'd caught his breath, Domovoi asked tentatively, "May I ask what part of the kata I was doing incorrectly, Madame?"

Madame Ko considered him for so long that Domovoi worried his mistake had been so glaring he was an idiot not to have seen it himself.

"You perfected the kata an hour ago," she said. "I was very pleased with you today."

Domovoi was floored for a minute, then felt a weird mixture of pride and irritation. But mostly pride.

Madame Ko patted him on the shoulder. "Go cool down. Hanshi Garrow will be judging sparring matches on the north end shortly. I am sure you will want to participate."

And she left to go oversee the training of some of her older pupils, leaving Domovoi to privately bask in the glow of that rare and unsolicited compliment.

* * *

**A/N: I love Madame Ko. But I'm really glad she's not my teacher.**

**Correct me if I'm wrong, I'm about 90% positive that Butler's training took place in Israel. I believe it said so in Eternity Code. Switzerland and Israel... **

**Ok pop quiz, who knows where Juliet did her training? Lol, screw Carmen San Diego. Where In The World Is Madame Ko's Academy?**


	3. Dreading the Day

"For heaven's sake Jarek, will you put those damn things away already? He's been at it for nearly two hours, give the kid a break. It's time to eat."

"Relax, Nadia, he's almost got it down," said Jarek Butler, not taking his eyes off the small boy in front of him. "One more time, Dom."

"Dinner will be ready in three minutes, and it'd be nice if we were all together at the table, for once," said Nadia from the doorway. She sighed in exasperation when neither of them responded. "Alright, fine. Do whatever. But if you're not sitting at the table when it's finished, you don't get any." She stalked back into the kitchen.

"Mama, wait! I wanna have dinner!" Domovoi shouted in alarm, staring blindly in the direction her voice had come from.

"Don't worry, your mother won't actually eat dinner without us," Jarek stage-whispered.

"The hell I won't!" shouted Nadia.

"You promise she won't?" the boy asked his father. His piping voice was full of genuine concern.

"Yes, I promise. Go ahead. Just once more. You've got three minutes. Ready?"

"Okay..."

"And… Go." He started the timer on his stopwatch.

Domovoi's nimble fingers ghosted over the assortment of metal parts spread out on the floor in front of him, lips pursed as he concentrated.

"It's a semi-automatic… Browning Hi-Power, nine millimeter?"

His father smiled at him, though Domovoi couldn't see it through the necktie knotted around his head.

"Good. Let's see what you can do with it."

The boy went to work at once, small hands flying as he identified each piece of the weapon, sliding and twisting it into place.

_Barrel into the slide… Guide rod connects to the recoil spring… _

His movements were quick but certain_._ He chanted the steps to himself in his head as he worked.

_ Recoil spring goes into the guide… Guide lines up with the barrel lug… Slide goes into the frame, engage the safety. Put the slide release pin back in. Lock the slide and put in the magazine_…

Domovoi frowned as his searching fingers encountered a tiny metal cylinder left over_. Wait a minute... What?_

His father watched him closely as he turned the object over in his hands again and again. Finally a grin spread across his face.

"This doesn't go," he giggled. "Daddy! You put this here to trick me, didn't you?"

Jarek beamed. "You're right. You passed. In two minutes and nineteen seconds."

Gleeful, the boy ripped off his makeshift blindfold and stared at the pistol in shock and awe, like he half-expected it to disintegrate before his eyes. "Daddy, look! I did it! I really did it!"

"That's my boy," said Jarek with quiet pride, ruffling his son's hair. "Very good, Domovoi."

Domovoi was ecstatic; his father's praise meant the world to him. He looked around and saw his mother standing by the door, arms crossed.

"Mama! Look what I did! I put together the Hi-Power in two minutes and- um, and some seconds and I didn't even look _once_!" He held the assembled gun aloft like a trophy.

Nadia forced a smile. "Good job, honey," she said with strained enthusiasm. "Impressive. Really nice work."

Domovoi, who had gone back to inspecting his handiwork, was too excited to notice as the smile slid off her face, but the grim expression that replaced it wasn't lost on Jarek.

"Domovoi, sweetheart, go wash up for dinner now, alright? We're going to eat soon," she said.

"Okay," the boy chirped. He hopped to his feet and dashed up the stairs to the bathroom.

There was a minute of silence as Jarek went about collecting various pistols from the floor, including the Hi-Power, and carefully packing them into their case.

Eventually he finished and was forced to acknowledge his wife's glare. "What, are you mad at me or something?"

"Jarek, you know how I feel about him handling guns," she said in a low voice. "I don't have a problem with you teaching him martial arts, I support that one hundred percent. It's good he learns to stand up for himself, and he loves spending the time with you, but he's only five years old, and I don't want him messing with guns."

"Nadia, he's not _messing_ with guns. He's learning about them. Accidents happen when people are ignorant. The more he knows, the less likely it is he'll make a mistake."

"If he didn't have access to a gun, it'd be even less likely," the woman snapped.

"Well he's got to learn sometime. Better sooner than later, I would think. I was handling a gun at his age, and I never shot anybody. Well, not accidentally… Kids have more sense than a lot of people give them credit for."

"I'm not doubting his intelligence, I know he's sharp," Nadia snapped. "But I don't see why he needs to learn these things now. He doesn't need to be thinking about ways to kill people, he should be out running around, playing ball with his friends, worrying about homework. Being a _kid_, for heaven's sake!"

"Mm. And he does all that, in his free time. But just a few more years… " He sighed. "He'll be off to the academy before we know it." Nadia looked pained. "Domovoi has a lot of talent, he should spend as much time as possible honing it before he goes away. I know you'd like to keep him innocent and naïve, but in all probability, there will come a time when his marksmanship and his wits will be what keeps him alive."

Domovoi's mother winced. "Please, don't. I don't want to think about that now," she said, trying to ward away the future with a wave of her hand.

"No good comes of keeping kids in the dark about the harsh side of life, Nadia," said Jarek gently. "He can't be your little boy forever."

"I don't want him to be my little boy forever. I just want him to be my little boy right _now,_ while I still have him here. Is that such a bad thing to want?"

Jarek had no response to that. He looked at his troubled wife and wordlessly leaned forward to kiss her.

"I'm sorry," he said.

It wasn't an apology, Nadia knew. It was condolence.

* * *

**A/N: Poor Mrs. Butler. She was probably gray by the time her son was twenty. :(**

**Hope everyone had a happy Christmas/Hanukkah/Kwanzaa/whatever else gets celebrated this time of year!**


	4. Mauled by a Cougar

**A/N: I should probably alert you all that this contains adult themes. Nothing very explicit, still T rated, but I felt morally obligated to warn you.**

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* * *

  
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A soft knock on the door interrupted Domovoi's nightly meditation. He sighed through his nose. There was nothing more annoying than being jarred out of a sense of total peace, especially when it was probably for something stupid.

His employer had retired to her room early, pleading a headache, and, knowing that a round-the-clock security team was patrolling the grounds, he had followed suit. The Bristows had a chef to take care of their cooking, so it was unlikely he was needed in the kitchen. The knock wasn't urgent enough for there to be some kind of emergency.

Curious, he got up and opened the door, and there, standing casually in the doorway and looking greatly revitalized, was his practice principal, Mrs. Miranda Bristow.

Tall and dark haired, Mrs. Bristow had the looks of a movie star and the body of an athlete. But she didn't act, nor did she play a sport.

In fact, as far as Domovoi could tell from the month he'd worked for the woman, her two main purposes in life were: first, to spend her days blowing a small fortune on designer clothes, spa visits, and trips around Europe with fellow trophy wives, and second, on the rare occasion her jetsetter husband was home, to play the role of designated arm candy at various social functions.

Domovoi was dressed rather sloppily in pajama pants and a tank top, but he stood tall and did his best to seem professional. The four men who made up the estate's twenty-four hour security already sneered at him for his youth; the last thing he wanted was to give them proof that he wasn't taking his job seriously.

"Yes, Mrs. Bristow?"

"Hello, Butler." A peculiar smile spread over her face as she surveyed him in his rumpled sleepwear.

Domovoi waited expectantly, but she didn't say anything more, apparently not in any rush to get to the point of her visit.

She just stood there in her obscenely short scarlet bathrobe, arms crossed, revealing far more tanned skin than was necessary to distract her teenage bodyguard, though you would never know it to look at him.

"May I help you with something, ma'am?" he said finally. Mrs. Bristow gazed at him coolly, tongue pressed to the back of her teeth. Her unblinking stare was beginning to make him uneasy.

"Yes, Butler, I think you can," she said. "May I come in?" Her tone made it clear that it wasn't really a question.

It was an odd request, but Domovoi could think of no way to politely refuse, so he stood back to admit her. She brushed lightly against him on her way through the door.

Hands on hips, she looked around the fastidiously organized bedroom as if she'd never seen this part of her own house before. And perhaps she hadn't. There was hardly any reason for the wife of a millionaire to go traipsing about the staff's quarters.

Which begged the question: what in the world was she doing here now? She had never paid him any attention before, except to tell him to "be a sweetheart and fetch me a double latte decaf with soy milk, no foam, would you?" This was most unusual.

Mrs. Bristow sauntered over and took a seat on the bed, curling her legs under her, causing the robe to ride up another couple inches. She patted the spot next to her with a smile.

"Sit. I want to talk to you."

A strict upbringing had taught Domovoi that the words "I want to talk to you" were very rarely a good thing, but he obeyed and sat rigidly on the opposite end of the bed from her, warning bells going off in his head as he did so.

"Yes ma'am. About what, may I ask?"

"Oh, life in general." Her smile took on a tinge of melancholy, and Domovoi relaxed a bit. He was good at listening to his principals talk about whatever was bothering them. All he had to do was look sympathetic and throw in an "mhm" every few sentences.

"Of course, ma'am."

"Oh, don't be so formal, Butler. You can call me Miranda."

Domovoi hesitated. A bodyguard was not supposed to call a principal by his or her first name. Ever. It was improper, and blurred the distinction between employee and friend. As Madame Ko reminded him repeatedly, it did not do to let your emotions get in the way of your duty.

But… It also did not do to ignore the wishes of said principal, unless those wishes posed a threat to his or her safety.

_Hmm_, he thought. _Standard social etiquette, or bodyguarding technicalities. Which was more important?_

And then, _This is stupid. She's an airhead. I'm not going to get attached to her no matter what I call her_.

"Very well, ma- …Miranda," Domovoi corrected himself. It was silly, he knew, but he felt like that tiny little breach of etiquette had been a huge step over the line of propriety.

Miranda smiled. "Better," she said. And nothing else.

"So… Miranda," Domovoi prodded, wincing a little bit on the inside._ "_What exactly did you want to talk to me about?"

The woman heaved a sigh, leaning back to prop herself up on her elbows. The way the bathrobe gapped in the front as she did this was not at all lost on Domovoi.

"Oh, nothing in particular, really. Can't I just have a friendly conversation with you? Surely that's not against bodyguard regulations?" she said with teasing sarcasm.

Domovoi was completely serious. "That depends on what our conversation is about, ma'am."

"_Miranda,"_ she said insistently. "Can't you drop the whole 'professional bodyguard' thing for like five minutes?"

"No, ma'am, I can't," he said, his tone a bit chilly. He didn't like the way she acted like his assignment was some sort of joke to be tossed aside.

Miranda was unfazed. "Well can you try?" she pouted. "I just want to get to know you a little better. We spend an awful lot of time together, after all."

Domovoi thought about this. He was pretty sure she'd spent most of the past month either treating him like a particularly boring piece of furniture or else sending him on menial errands that could just as easily have been delegated to someone who wasn't responsible for her life.

"Mrs. Bristow-"

"You mean Miranda," she said sweetly.

He sighed. "Look, if you want to chat with someone, perhaps you ought to try Mr. Aldrich," he said. Maybe the elderly chef, having known Miranda for years longer than he had, would be better equipped to deal with her strange mood.

"You really are dense, aren't you?" she mused.

"I must be," he said tersely, "because I haven't a clue what you're trying to get at, here, ma'am."

She raised one amused, perfectly arched eyebrow. "You don't know what I'm _trying to get at_, hm?" she said, inching closer to him. "Must you make this so complicated?"

"Erm…"

A determined sort of gleam had entered Miranda's eyes. She lightly stroked his bicep, raising goosebumps all down his arm. "I'll give you a hint."

Before Domovoi could fully register what she was doing, she'd backed him against the headboard, hooked her arm around his neck and pulled him in for a deep kiss.

For a moment he was stunned. He simply sat there, frozen and unresponsive, as her lips searched his for an opening. Her hand traveled up his arm, to his shoulder, and came back down to rest on his chest, while the other stroked the closely cropped hair at the base of his neck.

Domovoi's eyes fluttered shut and, without thinking, he began kissing her back. The hands moved down to his waist and crept under his shirt, and Miranda made a noise of delight at finding the muscles underneath.

"Oh God…" she murmured, impressed, running her hands up his torso.

_Lord, that feels good._

"Oh God is right," he breathed. She giggled.

She'd just gotten her tongue past his lips when his eyes flew open.

"Oh _God_," he repeated, and pushed Miranda off of him. He leaped off the bed and retreated to the other side of the room. "What am I doing?" he gasped, horrified.

"You _were_ making out with me, before you ran away." Her tone was playful, but her annoyance was obvious.

Miranda rose from the bed with the grace of a panther and traipsed over to him, lazily backing him into a corner. "What's the matter, sweetheart?" she asked.

Their activity on the bed had loosened the top of her bathrobe to the point where he could tell there was nothing underneath, but Domovoi, though shaken, forced himself to look her in the eye.

"M- Mrs. Bristow… I- I can't even begin-…"

"No?" She grinned. "Then don't," she said, sidling closer and playing with the bottom of his shirt.

He took a deep breath and tried again. "Miranda. Whatever _this_ is… it can't happen. This is so inappropriate I can't begin to describe..." She didn't seem to be listening. He seized her wrists and pulled them away from his shirt.

"_Mrs. Bristow._"

That terribly seductive eyebrow was quirked again. "You know, I kind of like it this way, too," she said, looking pointedly at the way he gripped her wrists. He dropped them like he'd been electrified.

"If someone walked in right now, what do you think _this_ would this look like?" he hissed, gesturing between them.

Miranda clicked her tongue. "Probably like I'd just snogged you senseless," she said, waggling her eyebrows. Domovoi grimaced and she rolled her eyes. "Okay, fine. You're right." She headed for the door.

For a second Domovoi let himself hope she was just going to walk out and leave him be. His stomach knotted when she locked them in instead. "There. Now no one will walk in."

She looked him up and down, like he was a birthday present to be unwrapped, and then she was touching him again.

_And the problem with that is…?_ asked a devilish part of Domovoi's brain.

His nose was full of the smell of her skin, like warm vanilla mixed with brown sugar, tinged with the smoke of her last cigarette.

_Shut up. There are too many problems with this to name._

"Miranda, you don't understand." His voice was hoarse with lust and nerves. "This is such a huge violation of protocol, and not only that but you're _married_, and I'd get in so much trouble if anyone found out that this happened… You've got to go," he pleaded. Visions of floggings at the hands of Madame Ko and his father flew through his head.

"Don't worry about it, love. No one will find out," she purred. "I'm very good at keeping secrets." She slid her arms around his neck, and Domovoi could no longer help but sneak embarrassed glances down at her barely-concealed chest. But Miranda was shameless as she slipped his tank top over his head and gave him a very slow and admiring once-over.

He was suddenly very glad he was wearing his loosest pajama pants, because things below had grown uncomfortable enough as it was.

He grasped Miranda's shoulders as her hands wandered his body, trying to find the strength to push her away when all he wanted was to pull her closer and do to her what she was doing to him.

She pressed herself against him, curious fingers drifting lower. "My, my, what have we here?" she said in mock surprise, feeling his now rather obvious erection through the fabric. "Does this mean you've rethought the wisdom in asking me to leave?" Domovoi was surprised to feel himself blush; he wouldn't have thought his body had enough blood to spare to color his face.

He didn't think he'd ever felt as conflicted as he did just then, looking at her pitifully. She was so bloody gorgeous…

She was his principal! He wasn't supposed to be calling her by her first name, much less be looking at her half-naked, letting her venture below his waistband, touching parts of him no girlfriend had ever made it to before.

_Wrong… wrong… wrong…_

Much, much less be touching her back, pushing the silky bathrobe off her shoulders, tracing the outline of pale curves that were never exposed to the sun. Tangling his fingers in that long, glossy dark hair, pressing his lips to the soft skin of her neck…

_ If anyone ever found out…_

Savoring each little sigh that escaped her. This was heavenly. But Miranda was far from an angel. She nudged him back over to the bed.

"If you lie down, I can take care of that… rather large problem of yours," she told him, brushing her mouth against his ear, making him shiver.

She walked him backwards until he bumped into the bed, his legs buckling, and pushed him onto his back before straddling him. If there was any lingering resistance in Domovoi's mind, this was the moment that drove it out.

Miranda smiled a very predatory smile as she looked down at him. Domovoi swallowed. He was used to doing the hunting, not the other way around.

"Don't worry, love," she said, nibbling at his collarbone. "You're going to enjoy this."

xXx

"Enjoy" was not a strong enough word to describe how Domovoi felt about sex with Miranda. Once she'd started really working her magic, stopping had quickly ceased to be an option. Never before in his life had he felt he _needed_ something quite so desperately as he'd needed her ten minutes ago.

Domovoi lay on his back, hands folded on his stomach, staring at the ceiling in lazy contemplation. He should have been worried. Ashamed, maybe. But all he felt was utter contentment. The terror would set in later, he knew.

Miranda was lying separate from him on her own side of the bed, looking moody, and Domovoi couldn't fathom why. Did she feel guilty about cheating on her husband, he wondered? Maybe she was worried the rest of the household would find out somehow? Or maybe – he felt a pang of self-consciousness – maybe she was disappointed with his performance?

His brow furrowed. If that was the case, it was hardly fair. She was much older than him; she couldn't have expected him to match her level of experience. And anyway, it wasn't as if he'd asked her to do this. He was the one who'd thought it a bad idea from the get-go.

Eventually Miranda rolled over and touched his forearm. "Butler?"

"Mm?"

"Have you ever had sex before?" she asked.

He cringed. He'd guessed right. Damn. "No-o," he said, stretching the word. "I'm sorry. Was it that bad?"

She smiled with more sincerity than he'd seen from her all night.

"No, it wasn't bad. You were just…"

"Awkward? Clumsy? Inept?" he suggested.

"I was going to say 'sweet,'" she said, looking at him with something akin to tenderness. "Sweeter than I expected." She hesitated. "Er, how old are you?"

Domovoi chewed the inside of his lip. "Um. Seventeen?" he said, like it was a question.

It was Miranda's turn to cringe. "Seventeen?"

"…In three weeks."

She exhaled slowly. "You're sixteen."

"Well, not for long…" he muttered. She was quiet for a while.

"Has anyone ever told you that you look a lot older? I swear, I thought you were twenty, maybe nineteen at the youngest…" Miranda said, more to herself than to Domovoi.

"Erm. I know this is a fine time to mention it, but, please, tell me you're on birth control or something?"

"What? Of course." She snorted. "I'm not _completely_ irresponsible. No. No illegitimate children today, don't worry."

"Oh. Good."

There was an awkward silence. Miranda sat up and sighed. "Well, sweetheart, this was fun." She reached over and kissed him on the cheek before going to pick her skimpy robe up from the floor. Annoyed, Domovoi boosted himself up on his elbows, feeling like a child tucked into bed.

Miranda retied her sash, ran her fingers through her hair, and checked that everything was again neatly concealed, then glanced at the bodyguard-in-training scowling on the bed. She smiled, walked over, leaned across the mattress and kissed him on the mouth, wiping his mind blank.

"A lot of fun," she whispered.

"Mhm," he said, eyes closed.

"I'll see you tomorrow night."

When he opened his eyes again, Miranda was gone.

Moving as if hypnotized, Domovoi went straight from the bed to the shower, but the hot water did little to clear his head. He snatched up his pajama pants, donned them, and didn't bother putting on anything else before crawling into bed, suddenly exhausted.

Sure enough, just as he'd predicted, a little ball of terror began to grow, gnawing at his stomach. He could hardly believe what he'd just done. How had this even happened? _Why_ had this even happened? Why had she decided to sleep with him?

He rolled onto his side and hugged his pillow to his chest. It smelled like her.

_ See you tomorrow night… _

And what the hell is that supposed to mean?

* * *

**A/N: I debated between making this part of "Mile" and publishing this as its own story, because this is actually going to be a 3-shot. But alas, I couldn't bear to separate it from the rest of my Butler-growing-up stories. It was a learning experience for him, bless his heart.**

**I have a basic outline for the next two segments, so hopefully I can get them out here in a reasonable amount of time. Of course, I'm going to be awfully busy with school now the new semester's started, so I might need a big digital kick in the pants from my faithful readers in the form of reviews. *hint* *hint* =]**


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